The Misadventures of Cartman and Wendy
by Shuggie
Summary: High school is over and college is a thing of the past. Rich, sucessful, and two time zones away from the headache that is South Park, Wendy and Eric Cartman now live in blissful matrimony.
1. Meet The Cartmans

**Yay! My brand spanking new South Park fic! It's been a looong time since I wrote for this fandom. Of course, it's a CartmanxWendy. Apologies for any terrible grammar, spelling, or punctuation errors. Let me know of any that are terrible and I'll fix them. Please read, review, and enjoy.**

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Chapter 1**

Wendy and Eric Cartman were a couple that everyone and no one ever expected to happen. While anyone could see the things they had in common—ambition, bad temperament, manipulative skill, the lack of remorse for having people killed in the name of revenge—they fought each other too much to even be friends. They argued over the most trivial things imaginable. Cartman seemed to have made it his life mission to make Wendy miserable, after he was done with Kyle, of course. And Wendy never backed down from a challenge or fight.

Kenny had always claimed that they were both boiling over with sexual tension. Stan was disturbed that—assuming Kenny was right—he had once been in love with the girl. Kyle just hated Cartman and refused to believe that someone like Wendy, a person with morals and standards, could ever feel things like that for someone like Cartman, a person who was lacking all compassionate traits that made one function as a human being.

But strangely enough, come the end of their senior year, Wendy and Cartman were dating. They, of course, fought constantly, and each day left the residents of South Park guessing if they would stay together or stay apart. There were several pools started by the town's citizens, from the seniors to the kindergarteners. They had several large fights, fights that had the town, and occasionally the nation, split into opposing armies. No one thought they would last. But then, towards the end of their last year in college, Cartman proposed.

Well, it was more like he demand that she legally become his bitch, to which Wendy responded by threatening the existence of his manhood if he backed out.

And so Wendy Testaburger and Eric Cartman became lawfully husband and wife a few months after graduating college. Kenny McCormick and Bebe Stevens, as expected, stood as the best man and maid of honor. Also, as expected, they hooked up that night. Stan and Kyle were glued to each other's sides the entire night, like the pathetic boyfriends they were, Cartman noted.

The young couple decided not to take a semester off to begin their new lives as a married couple. Both were too ambitious to continue life with mediocre jobs, and Wendy would not let her husband's hatred of school stand in the way. She also refused to let him take the easy way out by scamming and killing a few choice executives. Wendy went on to law school, from which she hoped to enter into politics. She would deal with dragging Cartman to Washington in a few years. Cartman continued with a business degree. After all, it was certainly what he was best at. It wasn't even a full year before he was vice president of his company's Colorado branch. Although young, both Cartman and Wendy were very successful.

The Cartmans' move to the national capital was surprisingly agreeable. Cartman had quickly realized that he would be right at home with the weaseling politicians and would have ample opportunities to talk his way to the top, which, of course, he did. He was rapidly climbing the ladder of the Washington branch. Besides, with Wendy in the Senate, he could easily say that he, Eric Cartman, had the nation's hottest senator as a wife. The rest of those bitches were ugly old skanks.

Cartman and Wendy's sex life was amazing. They fought often enough that six out of ten times they had sex, it was make-up sex, which made it all the more orgasmic. They shagged like rabbits. Of course, Wendy wanted children, but it was the one thing Cartman hadn't let her bully or scream at him until he finally gave in to shut her hippie mouth up. He was only twenty-seven. He didn't want a bunch of brats running around his house yet. Besides, the woman's maternal instincts would stay around forever. It wouldn't kill her to wait a few more years.

One of the best things about living in Washington D.C. was that it was so far from South Park. Cartman had been ready to leave the town for more years than he could remember. The residents were morons, complete and utter morons. Cartman at his worst had always been more mature than those pathetic excuses for adults. Things in Washington ran much more smoothly than in South Park. Sure, the people were hardly less moronic, but it provided the Cartmans with a better challenge. It was one thing to trick a redneck hick from a pissant mountain town, but it was quite another to con a sniveling, scamming, ivy leaguer. Wendy and Cartman took much more pleasure in coming out on top of these East-coasters.

The Cartmans had bought an old colonial home on the Virginia side of the Potomac River. They were maybe twenty minutes outside of the city. Cartman had demanded that they live in Virginia as opposed to Wendy's preferred Maryland. Cartman still had a soft spot for the Old South. He had led all the men in South Park through the South to reclaim it dressed as General Robert E. Lee, after all. He had been so close to getting Stan and Kyle as his slaves, but Lincoln had screwed him over. Big hat wearing asshole.

The house was far larger than the two needed. They had ten rooms, seven bathrooms, a dining hall, and even a large ball room. Wendy used it for having numerous parties with politicians over. She had even thrown one for Cartman's business associates once. It was the only time she'd ever played a good house wife, and she swore to never do it again, not even in dress up sex.

The house had six white columns and red shutters on all the windows. The lamps outside were still oil lamps. Cartman thought it was gay and they needed to get with the times. Wendy thought it was sweet, so of course, they remained. A long dirt road that had never been paved with concrete led up to the house from the front gate, which was about a quarter of a mile down. It was lined with oak trees that were hundreds of years old. A previous owner had hung a simple wooden swing in the one closest to the house. Behind the main house there was an old stable. Wendy wanted a horse, but Cartman hated them and refused to keep someone on his pay role to take care of it. He had managed to stop a fight by reminding Wendy what would happen if PETA came through. They had a large pasture separating the sables from the old slave houses. Cartman occasionally liked to stand on the back porch with a glass of scotch, laughing to himself that a bunch of black assholes had once lived there. If only slavery was still legal! They'd be hoeing his cotton right now. He probably would have thrown the cotton away at the end of the day too, just to make them more miserable.

A couple of times a year, Wendy would fly Bebe and Kenny out to stay with them for a week or so. Cartman refused to put up the money for it, and Kenny was too poor to pay for his own ticket. But still it was sort of nice to see him every once and a while. After all, Kenny was Cartman's BFF and the only friend he didn't hate too much from that crap hole. Kenny and Bebe were an on-again-off-again-on-again sort of couple. They were mostly on again because they were both too whorish to stay off each other. They weren't married, but still had a little boy. Cartman and Wendy were his godparents. Kenny thought it was a great joke that if anything happened to him and Bebe, it would be Cartman who was in charge of his son's faith and spiritual guidance. Wendy and Bebe were understandably horrified. Kenny said it wouldn't matter because only Mormons went to Heaven anyways.

Cartman certainly didn't keep in touch with them by choice, but Stan and Kyle were still together. Wendy—much to Cartman's continued fury—still had a soft spot for Stan, and she and Kyle had been mind-fuck buddies in high school. For some reason, Wendy couldn't let either go, and they were always invited to the Cartman residence at least once during the summer and during the holidays. Thus, Cartman was forced to have his house soaped, cleaned, and vacuumed twice a year so as to rid it of the gay Jew disease.

Kyle had lived up to all of Cartman's expectations of him. He was a lawyer. He still wore gold around his neck in a little bag. He was still behind any and all misery Cartman ever felt. And he was still banging Stan. Stan was still an emo pussy. Any time he and Kyle had fights, Stan, predictably, either locked himself in a room with bad 80s music or donned his Goth apparel. Kyle would calm down and take him back, and they would be back to their sinful ways. It made Cartman sick.

Of course, he wasn't allowed to do anything about it, as he would have liked. He'd tried before, and Wendy had been upset, to say the least. She'd chased him down with a butter knife and almost sawed his balls off. Thank Jesus Bebe and Kenny had the good sense to pull her off. Kyle wasn't much of a help. He had merely sat back and watched with that sadistic Jew smirk on his face. If Cartman hadn't already been in enough trouble with Wendy, he would have done something about that smirk.

When Wendy was around, Cartman was forced into tolerance. Well, perhaps it would be truer to say that he was forced to be tolerant only in action. No amount of Wendy's screaming could make him stop muttering profanities under his breath at minorities.

Wendy was the only woman—or person, for that matter—who had ever been able to make Cartman do something against his will. No one else had any sway on him, not Kenny, not Kyle, not his mother, not God. If he ever followed another person's plan, he always had an ulterior motive. There was always something that would benefit him if he followed along for a time. But with Wendy, Cartman had often been forced into things that got him nothing. Of course, he'd bitch about them until Wendy punched him in the face. Wendy said that it got him brownie points, but Cartman said that was bullshit. She was his wife, damn it, and he'd have her any time he wanted.

Unless she'd forced him to sleep on the couch, that is.

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PS, the chapters of this story are all going to be fairly short. REVIEW**


	2. Small Dogs Are Like Footballs

**Much thanks to those of you who reviewed the last chapter. Your imput was very appriciated. I'd love to hear from the rest of you, it doesn't take long to leave a review. Enjoy the next segment, and please let me know of any missed grammar/spelling errors that are ridiculous.**

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Chapter 2**

"We should get a dog," Wendy said from her spot on the couch.

Cartman looked up from his newspaper. He gave his wife an odd look and reached for his beer. "A dog," he asked.

"Yes," Wendy said pulling her eyes away from the television screen, on which several puppies were running around and sticking their noses in the camera. It reminded Cartman of 'Animals Close Up With A Wide Angled Lens.' Wearing hats or not, it didn't matter. It was only worth anything when you were high on cough medicine.

Cartman arched a brow at the screen and turned back to his newspaper. "No," he said simply.

Wendy's brows lowered. "Why not," she asked darkly.

"I don't want a dog," Cartman said, licking his thumb and flipping to the next page.

"Well, who cares about you," Wendy snapped. "I want one."

"I'm allergic to dogs," Cartman said, not taking his eyes off his paper.

"You are not," Wendy said. "You don't have any allergies."

"I so do," Cartman said. "I sneeze all the time around hippies."

Wendy rolled her eyes. "That's not an allergy, you moron," she said. "The smell of weed probably just bothers you."

"I smoked weed in college," Cartman said with a smirk. "It didn't bother me then."

Wendy shook her head. "It's all in your head," she said. "You hate hippies so much that you've made yourself think you have an allergy. It's not real."

"Don't tell me what's real, ho," Cartman snapped.

"Don't call your wife a ho," Wendy retorted. "And I still want a dog."

"No."

"It can be a hypoallergenic one," she tried.

Cartman finally lowered his newspaper. "No," he said flatly. "Absolutely not. I refuse to own some pussy little yippy dog with no hair that I could throw clean across a football field. Those dogs are for stupid blonde bimbos who don't have enough brain cells left because of all the ammonia that's seeped into their heads from all their dye jobs to understand that their dog is a piece of crap. I will not own some crappy little rat dog."

"So we can get a big one that doesn't shed," Wendy argued.

"No, damn it! I don't want a dog," Cartman yelled.

"I do!"

"I don't," he snarled throwing down his paper. "And that's final, ho. We are not having a dog in this house!"

The next afternoon Cartman was muttering profanities under his breath as he drove his wife home from the pet store, a yipping yellow lab puppy in her lap. "Oh, you are so cute! Yes, you are," Wendy cooed at it. "What should we name her, honey?"

Cartman let out a noise that could only be described as demonic.

"Oh, come on, honey," Wendy said, leaning over across the cup holders. Cartman continued to glare at the road. "Honey, she's so cute. How could you say no to a face like this?" Wendy held the little puppy up by her husband's face. The puppy yipped a few times before licking Cartman's face.

Cartman suddenly let out a violent sneeze, causing the car to jerk into the next lane. Some old hag honked loudly, and Cartman flipped her off. Wendy blinked and lowered the dog back to her lap. "Are you really allergic," she asked.

"Yes, ho," Cartman said with an irritable tone. He ran a sleeve under his nose and sniffed loudly. "I told you."

"I'm sorry, honey," Wendy said sincerely.

"You'd better be," Cartman grumbled. "And you had better make me, like, the biggest pie in the world when we get home."

Wendy laughed and leaned forward to kiss her husband on the cheek. "How's cherry sound?"

"Apple," Cartman responded.

"Apple it is then," Wendy said, playing with the strands of hair by his ear.

"Sweet," Carman replied grinning at the thought of his wife's astounding cooking. It was better than their personal chef.

The dog quickly integrated itself into the Cartmans' daily life, not that Cartman would admit to it. But Wendy had caught him sitting in his armchair, eyes locked onto the news and holding one end of the toy rope for the struggling puppy, used tissues littering the coffee table.

Wendy ended up naming the puppy Precious. It almost made Cartman gag, and he stubbornly called it "Dog." Cartman figured the dog would force subsidence in Wendy's desire for children for another year or so, but in the mean time, he hoped desperately that her naming skills improved by the time he was ready for children. He would not have a daughter named Star or a son named Butch. He'd change the birth certificates while she had her back turned.

One day, Wendy had hardly walked through the door when Cartman's booming voice exploded through the house. "WOMAN! Come take care of your animal!"

Having lost her voice during the day, Wendy pulled off her high heeled stilletoes and limped into the living room to find her husband seething behind the couch. "What, Eric," she asked hoarsely.

Cartman pointed fiercely to the carpet to a lump of brown. "It crapped on the floor," Cartman yelled. "And where the hell is the fucking maid? Isn't this part of her fucking job description?"

"She's not here today, Eric," Wendy squeaked as patiently as she could. "We agreed to give her the week off. Her grandson was just born."

"Like I care about some illegal wetback spawn," Cartman snapped. "I don't give up the kind of money I pay her to have big piles of dog shit on my carpet."

"I'm the one who pays the maid," Wendy reminded him with a frown. "Just because you're a man doesn't mean you pay for everything. Hell, I probably pay more bills than you."

"Yeah, but you're a woman, so I have to buy you presents and shit," Cartman scoffed. "When was the last time you bought me something?" Wendy's eyes flashed to the sixty-two inch LCD screen behind him, and then to the theater surround sound speaker system she had bought him for Christmas a few months ago.

"Bullshit. That's a joint gift. You use it almost as much as I do," Cartman reasoned. "You don't see me wearing all those diamond necklaces, now do you?"

"Eric, get over it," Wendy said exasperatedly. Her throat was completely raw. She had been talking and debating almost nonstop since eight-thirty that morning. She had just wanted to come home, relax on her couch and enjoy a nice cup of herbal tea. She should have known better. Eric Cartman didn't allow for relaxing evenings. He always had to cause some sort of scene.

"No," Cartman snapped. "Your dog crapped all over my carpet. It's lucky I don't take it out back and shoot it."

"If you touch one hair on that puppy's head, I will rip off your balls!" Wendy screamed as best as her voice would allow. "I will rip off your balls and have them stuffed. They'll replace that portrait over the fireplace. Then everyone who comes into our house will see that you have no balls!"

Cartman narrowed his eyes at her. He gave a suspicious glance at the stilletoes she was clutching tightly in her hands. "Look," he said. "Just clean up after the animal and stop squeaking at me." Then he blinked. "Why are you squeaking?"

Wendy growled. "I lost my voice. I've had a terrible day at the office. No one is willing to cooperate on anything, and I've been screaming all day. My head hurts. I'm having terrible back cramps. The bottoms of my feet are probably bruised from my shoes. I just wanted to come home and relax with a cup of tea, but I can't even do that because you always have to ruin everything!" She hurled the shoes at his head.

Cartman didn't duck quite in time, and the heel of one shoe scraped his temple, just by his eye. "Fuck!" he screamed. He brought up his hand to touch the spot, and it stung.

"Eric!" Wendy suddenly cried. "Oh, shit, honey!" She ran out of the room came back with a gauze patch. "You're bleeding," she said as she patched his temple up.

"Well, you threw a fucking shoe at me," Cartman said.

"I'm sorry, honey," she said, having been brought down from her earlier bad temperament. She hadn't meant to actually hit him with the shoes. "I'll go make you some steak. How's that?"

She turned to head for the kitchen, but Cartman reached out and grabbed her arm. He pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. "I'll take care of dinner," he said. "You go lay down."

Wendy smiled at him and kissed him. "Thanks, honey. I know how hard it is to turn down steak." Cartman frowned and pushed her towards the bedroom. It was hard to turn down her steak, and he had better get some a-freaking-mazing sex for it later.


	3. Fun Times With Truck Radios

**Thanks to all of you who are reviewing. I hope you like this next chapter! I apologize for any terrible grammar/spelling mistakes. Remember to leave a review!!****

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Chapter 3 

"Well, that was a disaster," Cartman growled as he focused his eyes on the road. Wendy smiled helplessly from the passenger seat. "And why the hell aren't we on a plane," he continued his rant. "I can't even wrap my head around how much faster it is to fly."

"But you hate the airlines," Wendy reminded him. "Those bastards have the worse security checks ever. Could those people be bigger morons? I mean for Christ's sake, I'm a woman. Of course my purse is going to have a nail file. And do I look like the sort of person who would take a plane hostage? No. I'm a fucking United States senator for crying out loud!"

Cartman arched a brow at her. "Did you just say that _I_ hated airlines?"

"Shut up," Wendy growled. "I hate flying and so do you."

"Right," Cartman said slowly, turning his gaze back to the highway. They were driving down a road in butt-fucking-nowhere. They had been invited to spend the weekend with a colleague of Wendy's and her husband. They had a very nice sea side home in South Carolina. But of course, Wendy didn't want to fly down there. She said the ride would be too pretty to pass up. Cartman didn't give a rat's ass about the scenic view. All he knew was that he was always the one who ended up driving. Wendy would get to read or stare out the window or sleep. Cartman would be stuck staring at the road and not even getting the radio when he got tired. Wendy didn't appreciate his music tastes, especially if they woke her up.

The weekend hadn't even been pleasant. Wendy's friend's husband was some sort of sneaky Jew rat, one far worse than even Kyle. Kyle had somehow managed to avoid looking too much like a Jew, excluding his horrific Jewfro. Kyle's cousin Kyle hadn't bothered Cartman as much as this bastard. This man was as Jew as they came, accent included. It was like Woody Allen if Woody Allen could go any more wrong. But it wasn't enough that Cartman had to look at him, but the Jew Rat had tried hitting on Wendy.

Cartman barely allowed Kenny to give Wendy hugs in greeting or farewell, so it was understandable—to him, at least—that he had punched the Jew right in his crooked nose. Wendy had nearly had a heart attack. Her friend had been mortified. The Jew had gone to the hospital to get his nose patched up. Cartman had been very pleased with himself. It wasn't everyday that he was able to present a "decent" excuse to hit a Jew.

It had been an awkward weekend, to say the least. The Jew had run out of a room anytime Cartman entered it. Wendy hadn't spoken to him until Saturday afternoon, and her friend was trotting on eggshells around everyone.

Once Wendy had gotten over Cartman slugging the Jew in the face, she had been rather grateful. Wendy was always the type who detested strangers hitting on her or checking her out. While she normally preferred to stab them with her heels herself, she loved seeing Cartman defend her honor. They had had some amazing sex Saturday night.

"But it wasn't too bad of a weekend, right, Eric?" Wendy asked.

"Whatever," he muttered.

"Come on, honey," Wendy said slyly, running a finger teasingly over his arm. Having been driving for several hours already, Cartman was not in a good mood and had half a mind to shrug her off. But then she started kissing his cheek and purring in his ear. It was very hard to remember why he was irritated in the first place. It was also very distracting, especially when Wendy reached down and unzipped his pants.

"Wendy," Cartman growled, "I'm driving!"

"I know," Wendy said with a large grin before she lowered her face to his lap. Cartman gripped the steering wheel tightly and sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. Holy hell! She was really damn good at that.

"Wendy," he moaned, concentrating as best as he could from swerving into a different lane.

Suddenly, the loud, obnoxious honk of an eighteen-wheeler blasted through their ears. Wendy and Cartman both looked out the driver's side window to see a trucker shooting them a shit-eating grin. He honked his horn again and laughed with the man sitting in the passenger seat.

Both Cartmans blushed a very deep shade of red. Wendy quickly zipped Cartman back up and flew back into her seat rigidly. They stared out the windshield in utter shock and Cartman sped up, leaving the trucker in the dust.

Wendy buried her face in her hands. She didn't speak for nearly fifteen minutes. "Oh my God, that was so embarrassing," she whined. Cartman only snorted in response. He switched lanes to go around another truck. As they passed by the cab, the truck's horn honked loudly.

Cartman and Wendy both looked up at the driver. He was grinning at them. He reached up and honked his horn again. He reached for his CBS radio and laughed into it. Again, the Cartmans turned red and gaped at the driver in shock. Cartman sped off again, the driver honking after them. Cartman growled, "I can't believe you did that."

Wendy turned sharply. "What," she asked.

"Can't you control yourself for a couple of hours," he continued.

"Control myself," Wendy cried. "I do believe you were enjoying it."

Cartman didn't respond to her comment. Instead he continued to rant, "You always bitch to me about how you have a reputation to uphold. And you bitch when I call you a ho."

"I am not a ho," Wendy snarled. "We are married. I am perfectly entitled to engage in sexual activities with you at any time I want!"

"Whatever, bitch," Cartman drawled.

"Don't call me a bitch," Wendy lashed out, punching him in the arm.

The car jerked into another lane. "Fuck, bitch," Cartman snapped. "You want me to ram this car into a wall?"

"What wall," Wendy yelled back. "There's no walls out here."

"Stop screaming at me, you crazy skank," Cartman growled. Of course, Wendy didn't listen. She kept yelling, insulting him with every fiber of her being. Cartman's ears were ringing from her shrill hippie voice. At the first opportunity, he pulled into a gas station, slamming on the breaks and sending both of them lurching forward.

"What are you doing," Wendy snarled, her dark eyes locked on the meter. "The tank's not empty."

"I'm sick of listening to you bitch," Cartman snapped, and he clamored out of the car, stalking into the convenient store. He threw the door open and stomped inside. He was sorely tempted to buy a six pack of beer and chug it down to loosen him up, but that would only make Wendy scream louder. He certainly didn't want to deal with that. She'd pissed him off enough for one day. Instead, he grabbed a cup of coffee, grumbling under his breath about what utter crap it was as he paid.

He wasn't really any calmer when he stepped out of the store, but he was ready to get home and loitering around wouldn't get him to Virginia any sooner. He was hardly three steps out the door when a loud horn honked. Cartman looked up to see Wendy sitting in the driver's seat of his car, her middle finger raised high for him to see. And then, she peeled out of the parking lot, leaving behind a cloud of dust. The car had long since disappeared from sight before Cartman's fists clenched, crushing the coffee cup and spilling the hot liquid over his hand. But Cartman was too angry to even notice.

"Fuck," he screamed, throwing the crumpled cup to the ground. "Fucking son of a bitch!" An elderly couple gaped at him. Cartman neither noticed nor cared about them. He was seeing red. "I'm going to fucking kill her!"

Who did that bitch think she was? That was _his _car she was driving. She had left him stranded here in the middle of butt fucking nowhere. What was her problem? What right did she have to leave him here? If anything, he should have been the one to abandon her to find her own way back. It had been Wendy, not Cartman, who had started this whole thing.

He was absolutely going to kill her when he got back to the house. He was going to murder her and throw her body in the creek behind the slave house. Wendy Testaburger was going down.

Cartman still hadn't calmed down by the time his cab arrived, and his anger boiled over at the cabbie's fare when the yellow car pulled up to his front door. Cartman didn't tip him.

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I didn't write their make-up. Just asume they screamed at each other and then started making out or something. Please review!**


	4. Jewiest Game In The Universe

**Thanks so everyone who's reviewing! Read on.**

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Chapter 4**

"Get up," Cartman said.

"Come on, man, you get this chair, like, everyday. You can spare it for an afternoon, can't you?" Kenny McCormick was lounging in Cartman's spacious armchair. This was unacceptable. That chair was completely molded to Cartman's body. It had the best view of the television, and he didn't have to move anything other than his elbow to pull his beer off the table.

"It's my chair, Kenny," Cartman snapped. "I paid for it. It's mine. You can sit on the couch."

"Eric, honey, it's not that big of a deal," Wendy said from her seat next to Bebe. Michael, the blond couple's son, was playing with some toys in front of them. "Just let him sit there. We have plenty of other seats."

"Kenny, you know I wouldn't hesitate to kill you," Cartman ignored her.

"You'd kill me over a chair," Kenny asked, a brow arched. "In front of my son?"

"You've died in front of him at least fifty times, babe," Bebe reminded him.

Kenny nodded in agreement as Cartman reminded him, "I had your feeding tube removed so I could take your PSP. Of course I'd kill you over _my_ chair."

"You're such a psycho, fatass," Kenny muttered, but he stood up to let Cartman have his chair. Sure, Kenny would come back if Cartman killed him, but dying hurt like a bitch, and Kenny wasn't a big fan of pain.

Cartman smiled smugly as he planted himself in his spot. He sipped on his beer and picked up the remote, turning on the television. "Eric," Wendy said, "we have company over. Turn that off."

"I don't care," Cartman said, flipping the channels to find the game.

"Turn it off. You can watch something before we go to bed."

"Back off me, ho," he responded lazily. Wendy stood up and walked over. She yanked the remote from his grasp and turned off the television. "Hey," Cartman yelled, glaring in such a manner that a lesser woman would have surrendered and run for cover. Wendy was not a lesser woman. She resumed her seat next to Bebe, the remote still in her vice like grip. Cartman eyed it hungrily, but he did not get up to wrestle it from her.

"So," Wendy said cheerfully, as though the small spat with her husband had not just occurred, "what should we talk about?"

Crossing his arms, Cartman grumbled, "Didn't you bitches run your mouths enough in the car?" Wendy and Bebe shot him little glares, but Kenny smirked. Since no one was in danger of having any body parts removed, Michael didn't even look up from his Nerdy Joe action set (Nerdy Joe not included).

Bebe began to ramble on about some shit that Cartman tuned out before he could even catch the subject. He sniffled loudly as the dog shuffled beside his chair, gnawing on some demolished stuffed toy. "So, are we all meeting up this year for Thanksgiving or Christmas," Kenny asked him, referring to the dreaded time of year when Wendy insisted on the Cartmans reuniting with not only Kenny and Bebe but Stan and Kyle as well.

Cartman frowned. "How the hell should I know," he asked. "That's the woman's business." Kenny rolled his eyes. "What do you care anyway? It's July."

"I just want to know which meal I'm going to be eating over here," Kenny said with a grin.

"You are such a poor piece of crap," Cartman muttered. Of course, Kenny was much better off now than he had been as a kid, but Cartman wasn't the sort to let old labels fade.

The adults spent the rest of the afternoon catching up and arguing, as was their normal routine. Dinner was spectacular, although not as good as it would have been if Wendy had cooked. She insisted on their personal chef making the meal so she could fully enjoy her time with Kenny and Bebe. Michael, worn out from the long day of flying, went to bed almost immediately after he had eaten. Finally left to their own devices, the adults sat around the bar in the kitchen. Cartman had long since switched from beer to whiskey, and Wendy and Bebe were both enjoying wine. Kenny, who had never cared much for drinking, was slowly nursing a beer.

"Let's play a board game," Wendy suggested.

Cartman snorted into his glass. "Are you fucking serious," he asked, blinking at his wife. At Wendy's expression, he said, "You're fucking serious."

Kenny slapped him on the back. "Board games aren't that bad, man," he said. Cartman shot him a pointed look.

But after Wendy's comment, there was no stopping the women. They had already run off to the living room, bottle of wine in tow, and were digging through the cabinets. Kenny and, grudgingly, Cartman followed them. "You got Twister," Kenny asked with a brazen grin. Cartman punched him hard on the arm.

"Oh, let's do Monopoly," Bebe said, holding up the box like a prize.

"That's the biggest Jew game ever," Cartman complained as Wendy pulled him to the ground around the table by his sleeve. The others ignored him as they set up the board and passed out money. Cartman wrestled the battleship away from Kenny and placed it victoriously on the starter square. Wendy declared herself the banker, after a long battle with Cartman.

Almost as soon as the first roll of the dice, the game took a turn for the worse. Cartman bickered with the other three about all their moves. He yelled at Kenny to stop making moves on his woman when Kenny attempted to make a trade with Wendy. He declared that Bebe and Wendy had made an Alliance of the Vaginas when the two tried to discuss owning all the railroads and utilities. Of course, he had no problem pestering Wendy to swap properties with him.

"No, Eric," she said, laying a protective hand over her single yellow property card.

"Come on," he insisted, "you give me that one, and I'll give you my green. Then we'll each have a full set, and we can put up hotels and make some real cash."

"I'm not trading you," Wendy said.

And the game continued. Bebe claimed all three of the red squares and jumped to put up her hotels. Kenny won the free parking four times in a row, thus reawakening Cartman's wrath. The Alliance of the Vaginas contemplated trading the utilities and railroads so as to control them all. And all the while, Cartman greedily eyed Wendy's yellow property.

"Trade with me, ho," he demanded on his next turn.

"No," Wendy said.

"Come on," he tried again. "You give me the yellow and fifty bucks, and I'll give you the green."

"Why do you want that space so much, Cartman," Kenny asked, observing Cartman's other properties. "You've got the serious money makers on the blue and orange ones."

Wendy frowned. "Last time we played, he had the yellow properties, and he completely dominated." Cartman smirked largely.

"So, what, you think you can do that again," Kenny asked.

"I know I can do it again," Cartman corrected. He turned his attentions back to Wendy. "You know you need the hotels," he said, holding up Pennsylvania Avenue.

Wendy was frowning. "That offer isn't good enough," she finally said. "What else will you give me," she asked, looking down at his earnings.

But Cartman was not willing to part with what he had earned. After a moment of intense deliberation, he answered seriously, "My soul."

The other three burst out laughing, and Wendy cried, "I'll take it!" She reached forward and snatched the property from him, throwing his desired and a fifty note at him. Cartman greedily slipped Marvin Gardens into his stack and bought his hotels.

Although Cartman had finally taken the beloved property from Wendy, he was steadily losing money as the game progressed. He had managed to land on one of Bebe's properties with each turn, and Kenny was still winning all the free parkings. He unjustly went to jail three times, and Wendy was raking in the goods from her railroads. It wasn't much longer before Cartman upturned the board, sending tiny hotels and paper money flying into the air.

"Cartman!"

Cartman merely finished off his whiskey drink and went to bed.

The next morning, Cartman woke up with a small headache. He had drunk a few more drinks the previous night than usual. The smell of bacon had drifted back into his bedroom. He pulled himself out of bed, shuffling around for a shirt and his house shoes. Stalking into the kitchen, he found Wendy standing in her robe before the stove, flipping omelets. Kenny had his glazed eyes glued on the television over his son's head, and Bebe was buttering Michael's toast. Cartman sat down with a heavy grunt, and Kenny passed him a cup of coffee.

A few moments later, Wendy wandered over, balancing four plates on her arms, each full of omelet, bacon, toast and fruit. The adults sat at the table, Michael at the bar, his cartoons on at a low volume. The only other sound was the clinking of forks against the plates or the slow sipping of coffee.

Just as he was about to polish off his last bite of bacon, Cartman blinked. "Did I sell my soul last night," he asked. "I forget."

Kenny laughed loudly. "You sold it back when you got married, man," he said. Wendy offered a napkin to Bebe, who had snorted orange juice all over her front. Kenny was quick to glue his eyes to her wet chest.

Kenny and Bebe spent the entire week at Cartman's house, eating his food, watching his televisions, using his hot water. Michael was leaving toys all over the house, and Cartman had stepped on them so much that he almost threw the little boy from the second floor window. Wendy caught him just in time.

By Sunday, Cartman was grateful to have the family of whores out of his house. They had tried watching a movie Friday night, but Kenny and Bebe had ruined it by talking loudly the whole time, finding sexual references in every scene. Of course, once the actual "love scene" had come on, there was no stopping them as the cheered for the characters to go all the way, complaining later about how all the good bits had been edited out.

When it was finally time for them to leave, Wendy tried to rope Cartman into driving the McCormicks to the airport, but he whined so much that she finally let him just call in a cab. As he usually did, Cartman unceremoniously shoved them out the door and slammed it shut behind them. He settled comfortably into his chair as Wendy wrenched the door open to give them a proper send off. Finally, the house was rid of Boobs with Brain and the Poor Asshole.


	5. Sex Is Overrated Anyway

**Chapter 5**

"Ho, come over here and take me to lunch."

Wendy stared at her phone, her mouth hanging open. Really, after all their years together, she shouldn't be shocked with Cartman, but he never failed to surprise her. "Excuse me," she asked sharply.

"My car's at the shop for the day. It's noon. I'm hungry. Logically, all this adds up to you coming to my office and bringing me to get some food," her husband answered.

"Did it ever occur to you that I might have already had plans," Wendy asked.

"Honor your vows, ho," Cartman said. "You're supposed to cater to me."

"I said I would love you until death do us part. I never said anything about lunch dates," Wendy corrected.

"Whatever," Cartman said. "Come over here." And he hung up. And a few minutes later, Wendy was walking out of her office down to her car. She cursed as she climbed into the seat and heated up the engine. She was just as whipped as he was.

Cartman was smiling smugly as he climbed into the passenger seat, and he demanded that she bring him to get Chinese food, which Wendy immediately protested. She hated Chinese. It was all a bunch of soggy buffet food. But since this was his lunch date, Cartman won out. But instead of pulling in to the China Palace, Wendy went to the P.F. Chang's. "You're paying," she said.

"Fuck you," he responded.

Cartman complained through most of the meal. Of course, they got the one Oriental employee who actually waited tables, and Cartman flatly told him to stop speaking Engrish or get him a white waitress. And since Wendy did not want to find spit in her food, she apologized profusely for her husband and promised him a large tip.

"I hardly tip white people," Cartman argued, not even waiting for the waiter to walk away with the pre-appetizer drink order. "What makes you think I'm going to tip the chink?"

"Will you just drop it, Eric?"

It wasn't too long before the waiter brought out their appetizers. Cartman's eyes widened with barely repressed fury. Because the waiter was very quick to walk away, he missed Cartman snarl, "Why the hell did he bring this stuff out already?"

Wendy stopped folding her wrap. "It's the appetizer, honey," she said slowly.

"I know that," he snapped. "But when he took our drink orders, he said 'something to drink before your appetizers.' Does it look like I'm done with this?" He waved around his scotch, which still had maybe two more sips left.

Wendy rolled her eyes. "It's not a big deal, Eric," she said. "Stop being so dramatic."

When the poor waiter came back to take the meal orders and bring the drink refills, Cartman barked after him, "And this time wait until I'm done with my drink before you bring my food, Ching-Chong!" He turned back to Wendy with a frown. "Now my food's going to sit under one of those damn lamps."

Wendy's shoulders slumped. "There is just no pleasing you."

"Sure there is," Cartman said. "I'm pleased with legal, upper-class, white service."

"Then don't ask me to take you to a Chinese restaurant," she said.

"You're the one who decided on P.F. Chang's," Cartman said.

Wendy frowned. "And you wanted to go to China Palace, which embodies all the opposite types of service from what you want."

"But it's cheap," Cartman said, "and you get lots of food."

Wendy was silent for a moment. She almost said something along the lines of "And you call Kyle a Jew," but that was the sort of comment that would have him so angry at her that _she_ would be the one forced to sleep in a different room or even at her office. Either that or he would go fishing.

It was never a good sign when Eric Cartman went fishing.

When the waiter brought the check, Cartman only put down the price of the meal, and, as promised, Wendy left a generous tip for the waiter's troubles. Her actions caused Cartman to bitch at her loudly as they left the restaurant, Wendy snapping back at every opportunity.

As they drove, the arguments became almost nonsensical, hopelessly detached from the original problem. And, of course, it was completely turning Wendy on. Sharply, she turned down a street, to a fairly secluded office complex that she knew was abandoned. "What the fuck are you doing, bitch," Cartman demanded as she pulled into the empty parking garage. She had the car in park before it had even stopped, and she lunged over the cup holders, smashing her lips against his.

Cartman immediately pulled her into his lap, responding hungrily to her. A few minutes later, Wendy was crawling into the back seat, dragging Cartman after her. Clothes were shed quickly. "There's a condom in my purse," Wendy said breathlessly as Cartman ran his lips over her neck. "Fish it out."

Cartman snapped his head up to look at her with a frown. "Why do you have condoms," he asked sharply. "You're on the pill."

"I keep them in there in case I haven't had time to go pick up the pills," Wendy snapped irritatedly. "There're there so we can have spontaneous, back seat sex like this at any given time. Now do you want to do me or not?" Cartman was already digging through her purse.

When Cartman collapsed against Wendy, she was completely breathless. _That_ had been very good sex. Although she would have rather cuddled, she patted him on the arm and said, "Okay, get up. We need to get back to work."

Cartman sat up and peeled off the condom, flicking it at the half opened window before he started to pull back on his clothes. "It's still on the window," Wendy said as she clipped on her bra. Cartman glanced over and frowned. He leaned over the front seat and pressed the window button. The window rolled fully down. "What are you doing," Wendy gasped. The condom had lodged itself inside the door.

Cartman pressed the up button. At a clicking noise, he said, "Oops."

"What do you mean oops," Wendy screamed. "You jammed my window! You jammed my window with a condom!" Cartman only shrugged. "Do you even realize how embarrassing this is going to be to fix? I'm going to have to go to the auto shop and tell them that there is a _condom_ in the _window_! This is insane. Would it have killed you to just throw it out like a normal person? Do you have to break everything I own? You're like a little boy."

Cartman just smiled at her while she ranted. Her hair was sticking up in odd directions, and her cheeks were flushed. Cartman leaned forwards and kissed her. She stopped short, her eyes wide. Cartman pulled back and tapped her on the nose. "You always look hottest when you're angry."

Wendy didn't manage to bring her car into the shop for over a week. She complained constantly about having to drive around with her window down. She tried to bully her husband into switching cars, because, after all, it had been his fault. He'd refused on all grounds, told her to stop bitching and take care of her shit.

As if Wendy's constantly nagging wasn't enough to set Cartman on edge, everything that could possibly irritate him in the office was doing so. Of course, the coffee machine was broken. But the bitch slap from life was that it was broken on every floor. The fax machine had exploded just outside Cartman's private office, sending plastic fragments and paper everywhere. A weasel of a New Yorker, who was Cartman's foremost rival for an upcoming promotion, was being a complete Jew. He insisted that he wasn't a Jew and was often offended when Cartman told him to keep his crocked nose out of Cartman's business.

Cartman had been pulling long hours for nearly a month straight. The day he'd gone to eat lunch with Wendy at P.F. Chang's was the only time he'd left the office during the day for three weeks. Wendy was very adamant about him not killing his rivals to get ahead, so he was forced to either do things the normal way, manipulate, or a combination of the two. Finally, Cartman had finished his intricate plot to send his rival spiraling down into a pit of shame. In just a matter of days, he would be promoted, given a better office on a higher floor, and receiving a significantly larger paycheck. He made a mental note to buy himself a new television for the bedroom.

He pulled into the garage at eight that evening. He didn't even bother to bring his briefcase out. Trudging into the house, Cartman flung his jacket on the couch and slumped into the bed room. Rubbing a hand over his eyes, Cartman was suddenly aware of a strong floral sent. He opened his eyes to see candles lit all over the room, providing the only light.

Wendy was sitting on the bed, wearing a skimpy little outfit. If Cartman had to peg where she'd bought it, he'd have guessed a Party City during the after Halloween sale. As cheap as that sounded, it still gave him a very nice view of her chest and long legs.

"What are you doing," he asked, frowning, as Wendy had begun to crawl towards him.

She stopped and frowned at him. "You don't like it," she asked. "But Cosmo said that almost fifty percent of men liked it when their women dressed up during sex."

Cartman arched a brow as he tugged off his tie. "Did you ever consider that I might be in the other fifty percentile?"

Wendy dropped back to her haunches and crossed her arms, pushing her breasts up further. She looked very much like a child who had been denied the newest big toy of the season, if you ignored the fact that she was in a whorish outfit. "I went and bought this because you've been having such a rough time in the office, and I wanted to help you relax," she pouted. "You really don't like it?"

"I'd like it a whole lot better on the floor." Cartman didn't have time to start unbuttoning his shirt before Wendy grabbed hold of him and flung him onto the bed. He was quick to rid her of the little dress, leaving her in only the petticoat, tights, and very pointy shoes. She nearly tore his shirt and pants off, flinging them to the far reaches of the room. Precious, who had padded into the room after Cartman, tried to bring back his belt. "Go away, dog," Cartman grumbled, pushing the puppy's wet nose from his side.

"Go put her in the living room," Wendy commanded. Cartman scrambled up and grabbed the dog's collar. He all but dragged her from the room, Wendy snapping after him to be gentle with her. When he got back, Wendy welcomed him with open arms. They began to roll around on the bed, making out gratuitously.

Some minutes later, having lost track of exactly where they were on the bed, Cartman rolled right off, bringing Wendy down with him. They landed with a loud thud on the floor, and the heel of one of Wendy's shoes sliced into Cartman's leg. "Shit fuck," he cursed.

"Crap, sorry," Wendy said, twisting around to check the damage. "Oh, crap, you're really bleeding!"

"No shit," Cartman hissed. Wendy jumped up and ran into the bathroom. Cartman could hear running water and cabinets opening and shutting. She came back in with a damp cloth and some band-aids. She wiped off the dripping blood and stuck on the bandage.

"There, good as new," she said. "And no blood got on the carpet." They sat for a moment in silence before Wendy laughed. "We don't seem to be having very good luck with sex lately, what with this, the condom in the window, that incident with the coconut scrub, and that whole sneezing on me episode." Cartman shot her a pointed look.

"I was sick. Let it go," Cartman said. "Snot goes away with a simple wipe. I'm going to have a gash in my leg for weeks."

Wendy made a face at him before leaning closer. "So, do you want to finish what we've started?"

"Only if you take off those whore shoes," Cartman said.


	6. Camping Sucks

**Note: there are a couple of offensive racial slangs in the first conversation between Wendy and Cartman. I mean no offense to anyone. It's just Cartman being his racist self. Please enjoy.**

**

* * *

Chapter 6**

"Who is the best puppy in the world," Wendy cooed. "You are. That's right. Who's the most precious? Precious is the very most precious puppy." Precious jumped and barked as Wendy waved her hands around the puppy.

Cartman ran a sleeve under his nose, a frown on his face. The dog was getting bigger, which meant it was shedding more and could jump up higher to reach Cartman. And, of course, Wendy wouldn't get rid of it. It was almost completely full grown.

Cartman had a business meeting in Chicago in a week. He flipped the channel from the Food Network, from which he had been making mental notes of all the good places to eat in the city, to the news. Some hurricane had just slammed into Florida, leaving hundreds homeless and many more with devastated property. Cartman smirked.

Wendy noticed. "That's not funny, Eric," she scolded.

"Yes, it is," he argued. "It's just like those dumb shits who live in Tornado Alley and always wonder why they get hit by tornados every year."

"They have a history there, and some people don't want to move from their roots."

Cartman ignored her. "I can't believe they sit and rebuild that crap every time. I mean, it's not like Florida's got anything going for it. Just a bunch of old people homes, and everybody knows that old people should be put into camps or killed by sixty-five. We should just plow down everything in Florida and just grow oranges. Write up a bill, ho."

Wendy rolled her eyes and ruffled Precious's ears. "Yes, let's just lump all the stereotypes into specific states and leave them with nothing else. I'll be sure to bring that up before the rest of Congress. We can have California monitor all the country's weather for ironic purposes."

Cartman snorted. "And move all the Jew rats to Manhattan."

"All the oil will come from Texas."

"The timber niggers can all go Oklahoma," Cartman continued.

"Eric," Wendy cried, but then she added, "Mormons to Utah."

Cartman smirked. "Of course, we'll have to ship all the raghead terrorists to Iraq and jungle bunnies back to Africa."

"But where in Africa," Wendy asked.

"Like it matters," Cartman shrugged. "Whole damn place is full of black assholes."

"You are such a racist son of a bitch," she said pleasantly, and he smiled at her.

Cartman was forced to contend with the McCormicks for one more week before winter rolled around. It hadn't been any different from usual. Kenny had managed to die not once but twice on the trip. He'd been unceremoniously run over at the airport just fifteen minutes after arrival, and the second time he had walked straight into a telephone pole while staring at some bitch's ass. There had been a very large and rusty nail sticking from the pole, which had lodged itself in Kenny's eye. Cartman had been too busy laughing to call up an ambulance, and Kenny had died from blood loss.

But other than that, nothing exciting had happened.

"Eric, honey, we're going camping on Friday, so don't go to the bar after work," Wendy said over dinner Wednesday night.

Cartman dropped his fork. "We're what," he asked, for he surely hadn't heard her correctly.

"We're going camping," Wendy repeated, "with the Smiths and Rectors."

Cartman blinked at her for a few moments. "It's November," he said.

"Yes, I know."

"You camp outside."

"Generally," Wendy nodded.

"The outside is cold in November," Cartman said.

"In most places in America."

"I'm not sleeping outside on the cold, wet ground," Cartman said.

"Come on," Wendy said. "It's not even as cold as it is in September back home. I know you and the other boys used to camp by Stark's Pond."

"First, South Park is no longer home. This house is home. Second, yeah, I used to camp at Stark's Pond, back when I was nine years old and had never had five major credit cards or less than seven hundred cash dollars on me at all times. Third, hell no," Cartman ticked off on his fingers. Wendy narrowed her eyes.

Cartman grumbled profanely under his breath as he pulled duffle bags out of the car. Wendy bounded over to where their company was setting up the campsite. Cartman glared after her. Of course, she couldn't even carry so much as her purse over there. He swore as he stumbled over with said purse, five duffle bags, two hiking backpacks, and a cooler. "Don't forget the stereo and your guitar," Wendy added as he staggered past her to put the bags into the tent.

Of course, Wendy knew that Cartman was musically talented. He had roped the entire class into the _Kyle's Mom is a Bitch_ song several times back in elementary school, not to mention numerous other songs. But one day she had found the Faith 1 album at a mall. Despite all protesting, she had bought it and still had it to this day. Cartman was listed as piano, guitar, and lead vocals in the album's booklet (Butters as drums and Token as bass). She thought it was hilarious (and pretty good when she got over the lyrics), but Cartman hated the thing. Sure, it had made him a butt load of money, but the whole point had been to get a platinum album before those assholes Stan and Kyle. Those Christians had fucked it up for him. They only gave out frankincense and myrrh albums. Bastards.

So Wendy had made him bring one of his old guitars. She was going to make him sit and play it around a campfire like a Goddamn hippie. He wondered if she'd be too angry if he spilled whiskey on it and dropped it into the fire.

They had been the last to arrive at the camp site. Precious had joined one of the other couple's dog, a large husky. Wendy had lamented tying Precious to a tree, but Cartman knew that if she ran off to explore, he would be the one that would have to chase her down while Wendy sipped hot cocoa by the fire. That was how things always turned out.

As Cartman scowled over Wendy's four bags for two nights, he had the sinking feeling in his gut. It was a well honed instinct that was razor sharp from having grown up in South Park. This trip was not going to go smoothly.

Because the Cartmans had been forced to leave rather late in the afternoon for the remote camp site, it was well past sundown as Cartman finally finished unloading the car. Since they had brought the musical entertainment, one of the other couples had brought all the food. And because they had brought the food, they were obligated to cook it. Cartman scowled as he was handed the lump of brown, grounded meat and blackened vegetables that were trying to pass themselves off as food.

Housed and cooked in nothing more than a scrap of foil, simply looking at it made Cartman throw up in his mouth just a little. He'd never thought there would come a time when he would say no to food, but here it was. Ever the scheming, lying politician, Wendy accepted the meal graciously and sent a covert glare to her husband, silently demanding that he eat the meal and like it.

Not wanting her to burn him with one of the flaming logs—she'd do it in a heartbeat—Cartman tentatively stuck a small bite of the supposed beef into his mouth. He made a gagging noise that caught everyone's attention. "Weak," he said, his eyes watering just a bit. "Totally weak."

"Eric," Wendy warned lowly.

"Dude, did you not even season this shit," Cartman asked with a frown.

The chef, Danny Rector, looked insulted and said, "I thought we would just take the meat as it was. You know, let the fire give it flavor."

"Oh, Jesus Christ," Cartman muttered into his hands.

"You'll have to forgive my husband," Wendy said sweetly, but her glare was fierce. "He's very spoiled."

"No, I'm not," Cartman said. "This just tastes like shit."

It was at this point that Wendy threw her foil bowl at his face. Cartman cursed loudly, for it was still a bit hot and he now had beef grease in his hair. When Danny offered to cook her another one, she said that she had lost her appetite, glaring intently at Cartman. He cursed again, realizing that it had been a clever plot to get out of eating the horrible dish. Cartman considered giving what was left of his meal to Precious, but then stopped. He had paid good money for that dog, and he didn't want it poisoned. He gave the scraps to the other animal, giving Precious a large chunk of ham from his personal cooler.

Cartman only went through one beer before he decided that there wasn't nearly enough alcohol in a Coors to get him through this night. He threw open the lid of his cooler and dug out a bottle of scotch. Pulling off his glove with his teeth, Cartman opened it, holding back a sigh, and poured himself a rather tall glass. Marshall Smith noticed the brand and said, "Nice choice." Cartman only grunted. "I'm a pretty big fan of scotch myself," Marshall continued. "Mind if I try a bit of that?"

Cartman finally looked up at him. The expression of surprise that crossed his face was very uncharacteristic. This guy expected Cartman to share even a drop of this very expensive liquor with him? That was laughable. Cartman wouldn't have shared this with Kenny, provided that Kenny drank liquor. "This," Cartman said slowly to impress his point, "is a sixty year old bottle of scotch." And with that, he screwed the lid back on, placed the bottle safely in his cooler, and reclined in his chair.

Marshall looked more confused than deterred. "So, it's got to be fantastic. You can't spare just a bit," he asked reaching for the cooler.

"Dog," Cartman called. Precious, whose rope allowed her to lie comfortably on the cooler's other side, leapt to her feet, growling and snapping at Marshall's outstretched hand. He jerked it back, and Cartman smiled.

"Eric, stop using my puppy to guard your alcohol," Wendy said, breaking momentarily from some story she was telling Marshall's wife, Kathy. Cartman only scoffed at her, patting Precious's head as she continued to bare her teeth.

The night continued on at an unbearable slow pace. The little hitch in Cartman's gut was steadily getting stronger, and he welcomed it, just to give him something to do. Kathy and Marshall had warmed up some hot cocoa and poured in gratuitous amounts of peppermint schnapps. When Kathy handed one to Cartman, he promptly threw it over his shoulder, unconcerned by her offended expression and Wendy's hiss.

A few moments later, Wendy leaned over to him and muttered, "This is the worst drink ever. There's too much schnapps, and it's not even good schnapps."

"So fix it," Cartman said, taking a sip of his delicious scotch, smiling to let her know that his drink was marvelous.

Wendy ignored his gloating and said, "The cup's not big enough to add the hot cocoa." Cartman glanced into her cup. She had barely put a dent into the drink. It was nearly filled to the top. He reached over, plucked the drink from her hand, and dumped it into the fire. There was the expected hiss as the liquid hit the hot logs, but, simultaneously, the flames jumped up high above their heads.

Cartman turned narrowed eyes to Marshall. "What the fuck are you trying to do, give my wife alcohol poisoning? There was enough schnapps in there to kill an elephant." And Cartman knew from experience that it took a lot of alcohol to affect an elephant. Cartman jerked Wendy closer to him and gave her a drink from his own stores. He didn't trust any of these assholes any further than he could throw them, and he preferred to let Mexicans do manual labor like that. Wendy was by far the best looking woman here. Really it wasn't even a contest, even if Cartman wasn't biased. And damn if he was going to let some bastard drunk up _his_ wife.

A while later, Cartman heaved himself up out of the chair. He thrust his cup into Wendy's hands and began to walk away. "Where are you going?"

"Take a leak," he called back. He grabbed hold of a roll of toilet paper as he exited the camp, deciding to take care of some other business as well. Sufficiently out of visual range, Cartman unzipped his pants.

"GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!"

The rest of the party came rushing onto the scene. At the sight of Cartman sitting on the ground wincing, his pants and boxers around his ankles, the women turned away blushing while their husbands averted their eyes. Wendy regarded him curiously, the flashlight in her hands. "What happened?"

"Fucking prickers," Cartman growled. Wendy chuckled and sent the others back to the fire. She walked over and reached down to help her husband up. She laughed uproariously as she went around to inspect the damage. "It's not funny, bitch," he snapped.

Wendy continued to laugh as she plucked the prickles from his ass. "How did you manage this?"

"Well, I had planned to take a crap, but I tripped."

"Over what?"

"Some fucking stick or something," he said. Then he jumped. "Ow, watch it."

"Sorry, that one was in a bit deep," Wendy said. She patted his ass and then said, "Okay, you're all ready for a prickle free crap, honey." Cartman grumbled under his breath as she walked back to the campsite.

Cartman, just by being himself, made the night very awkward for the entire group. Of course, he enjoyed that he was bothering them, but he was bored to tears and nearly started singing hymns when they finally decided to go to bed. The tent was obviously of a more expensive variety. It was large and spacious, with dividers to give each couple a private "room."

Wendy untied Precious from the tree. She wouldn't hear of her being tied up in the cold outside all night. So while Wendy rubbed the puppy's ears and cooed at her, Cartman set to zipping their sleeping bags together and arranging their pillows and extra blankets. When he was done, Wendy held the sleeping bag up so Precious knew to crawl inside of it. Wendy went in after her, and Cartman scowled. His allergies were already acting up enough as it was. Usually, Precious slept at the foot of their bed, and he didn't have a say in the matter. With her all the way at his feet, it wasn't too bad, but he didn't know if he could handle her right up in his face all night. Of course, he still didn't have a say in the matter, but he physically pushed the dog to Wendy's other side and pulled his wife against him. "Keep her over there," he demanded around a loud sniffle.

The next morning, Cartman, being quite used to a form molding mattress and 600-threat count Egyptian cotton, awoke with a sharp ache in his back. He cursed. He wasn't even thirty yet. He stood and stretched, causing several vertebrae to pop. He pushed Precious aside. It had been the puppy's tongue slobbering across his face that had awoken him in the first place. He rubbed his swollen eyes and leaned down to his cooler to make a morning drink. Again, he knew he was going to need it.

Wendy, who had also just awoken, was brushing her hair and wrapping up for the cold weather. Cartman shrugged on a coat and followed her out of the tent. As Cartman turned to zip the flaps behind them, he blinked. Reaching out, he grabbed Wendy's arm and spun her around. "Look at this shit," he said. The top of the tent was covered with a layer of ice. Additionally, the ground around the front of the tent was littered with broken ice. "The tent fucking froze last night."

Wendy let out at low whistle. "That never happen at Stark's Pond," she asked.

"Not in November," Cartman said. "This is so stupid," he added as he headed for the campfire, which Danny was working to rekindle. Cartman, of course, did not offer to help.

When Wendy later suggested that they go hiking, an actual shiver traveled down Cartman's spine. That was it. Whatever nonsense that was going to happen was going to happen on this hike. Cartman had two options. He could sit down in his chair and refuse to go (they wouldn't be able to move him) but be about as bored as he had been during that Butt Out assembly back in fourth grade. Or he could go with it.

And so Cartman was lugging a large backpack and his cooler up a marked trail behind his wife, Precious barking happily around his feet. The other couples were cooing about nature like a bunch of damned hippies while Cartman nursed a scotch. Wendy had mentioned that it was probably a good idea to stay sober, considering the trail went up a high, narrow cliff side. She was probably right, but Cartman needed to be loose to deal with both these people and whatever life was planning to throw him.

As it turned out, the cause of the problem was PETA again. Cartman made a mental note to write up a bill himself for Wendy to present during her next Senate meeting. He was going to get rid of those bastards once and for all. This time they had all gotten sand in their vaginas about some traveling circus that had set up camp nearby and had gone in and violently freed all the animals, which, of course, led to a wild stampede up the cliff.

The group of hikers managed to avoid getting trampled by the elephants, but Marshall got shot when PETA followed up behind them. Cartman sparred his corpse a smirk before commanding Precious to attack. Although only a puppy, she was very obedient. The dog jumped forward and bit down hard some woman's calf and shook her, which sent her flying off the cliff side. Wendy grabbed hold of the cooler and used it like a bat, knocking it into the temples of anyone who came near her.

As a minor war raged on the trail path, Wendy moved back to back with Cartman. "I suggest a minor retreat back to the tent," she said. "I have a gun in one of my bags."

"And you didn't bring it with you," Cartman said exasperatedly. "Haven't you been paying an ounce of attention to that South Park instinct?"

She shrugged. "I thought I was drunk." Cartman arched a brow as he lobbed a rock into the crowd before him. "I'd poured a bunch of whiskey into my Coke before we left the house. Then we got here and started drinking. It's been a steady going from the car ride on."

"Whatever," he said, grabbing her wrist and whistling shrilly for the dog. "Let's go." They hurriedly made their way back down the trail, arriving at the campsite some long minutes later. While Wendy was digging through her bag, Kathy and the Smiths appeared. Kathy was hysterical. Danny yelled, "You just left us there!"

"If you weren't smart enough to get out on your own, that's got nothing to do with me," Cartman said.

"What are we going to do," Danny asked. "Those people are crazy. They shot Marshall!"

"Okay," Cartman said simply. "Hurry up, ho."

"Got 'em," Wendy said triumphantly. She emerged from the tent with a pistol and a shotgun. She tossed the larger to Cartman along with a box of bullets. "Maybe we should go ahead and pack up the car," Wendy pondered aloud, sticking the pistol into her back pocket.

"So get to it," Cartman said, fishing out two bullets. Wendy nodded and began carting their bags to the car.

"Whoa, whoa," Danny cried. "What are you two doing? You brought guns?"

"Wendy made us get licenses, if that's what's bothering you," Cartman said.

"Guns aren't allowed on this site," Amy said worriedly.

Cartman closed up the gun. "My wife is a United States Senator," he said. "Do you think I give a fuck if guns aren't allowed out here?" He didn't even bother to mention the obvious that PETA was running around shooting everything they saw.

"But what are you going to do with those," Danny asked. "You aren't going to kill them?"

Wendy, who had been passing by at that moment, stopped short. The Cartmans turned to stare at each other for a moment before they burst into loud pearls of laughter. Wendy was clutching her sides, and Cartman wiped away a tear. "Oh, man," he said with a chuckle. Then he cocked the gun. "Got everything in the car, sweetheart?"

"Everything except Precious, honey," Wendy answered as she stood beside him.

The unprepared three screamed when PETA burst onto the scene again, but Cartman and Wendy calmly opened up fire, basting people in the heads or kneecaps. As expected, the whole thing escaladed out of control. The Smiths' car was blown up, and flaming arrow lit the tent on fire, which spread to the surrounding forest.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Cartman said. He climbed into the driver's seat of his car, and Wendy hopped in beside him. Unexpectedly, the Smiths, Kathy, and the husky jumped into the back. "The fuck are you doing in here?"

"Just drive, Eric," Wendy sighed. Cartman consented, running over as many PETA members as he could get to. "Sixty points," Wendy said gleefully.

"Well," Cartman said as they reached the highway, "that went about as well as expected."

"That ever happen at Stark's Pond?"

"Jakovasaurs," Cartman corrected.

"I thought you liked them."

"When I was eight," Cartman said. "Plus those DOI guys gave me authoritah over the whole thing." Eric Cartman liked almost anything if it gave him authority over others.

"Well, it could have been worse," Wendy said. "No celebrities showed up."

Cartman nodded. "Yeah, but now we have to deal with these assholes the whole way home," he said, jerking a thumb back at the passengers behind him. They were all squished together. The husky shook, and Cartman sneezed loudly. "And their fucking dog."


	7. The TV Can Fly

**It's been a long time since I updated this. But I've been getting back into the swing of South Park, especially Wendy/Cartman, which will forever be my favorite ship of all time. So enjoy. I'm actually not very pleased with this chapter. It's not too good, but the next one is better. It's about halfway done and should be out for Thanksgiving. Please remember to review! **

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Chapter 7**

Anyone who said that looks couldn't kill was a lazy bastard. They all lacked Wendy's determination. Currently, Wendy was throwing all of said fierce determination into one of the best glares she had ever concocted. She'd definitely rank it in her top three. Cartman would have been very impressed (and turned on) with her.

The object of her intense displeasure was Cynthia Lorne, a clichéd and condescending Republican the likes of which neither man nor lice colony had ever known. She was Wendy's biggest rival in the Senate, an old crotchety bitch that Cartman had often offered to kick square in the nuts for her—as both Cartmans were sure she had a pair. Lorne had been one of the biggest roadblocks in Wendy's election campaign, having dared use something as pathetic and mundane as an _age qualification_ against her. Of course, Wendy had plowed right through that argument, manipulating and scheming better than any could have ever predicted.

Once Wendy had entered the Senate, she immediately set to climbing her way to the top of her party, and had done so rather quickly. Now, she was a party leader and set to become not only the youngest Senator ever but the youngest president _pro tem_. All that stood in her way was Cynthia Lorne.

Wendy tried to use killing as an absolute last resort to get what she wanted, but murder was looking more and more delicious with each passing day. And if she did kill Lorne, she knew that her tracks would be perfectly covered. Only Cartman would ever know, and Wendy was sure that even he wouldn't complain about how hypocritical it was (she usually forbade him from killing to step up in his company).

And so Wendy sat in her seat, anger radiating from her body in waves as she gritted her teeth against the gravelly scratch that Lorne tried to pass off as a voice. Today the old bitch was trying to gain support for some backwater, nearly racist bill that her party highly favored. A tiny voice in her head noted that Cartman would have probably voted for it if he were here. But Wendy hardly gave that voice a second thought.

Wendy knew that she could do nothing substantial to ruin Lorne today, but by the time the elder woman was strutting back to her desk, Wendy knew exactly how she would relieve some of her stress for the time being. Wendy waited for the rest of the session meeting. She bided her time, speaking when appropriate and provided logical, precise arguments for her opinions. When the meeting was adjourned, Wendy took her time slipping her papers into her briefcase. Only one supply did not find its way inside. Having extracted a similar revenge on Heidi once in high school, Wendy knew exactly how to go about this.

She walked up to Lorne, her hand outstretched. The old prune sneered at her. "You provide a stirring argument, Senator Lorne," Wendy said diplomatically.

"Yes," the other said smugly, "my years of political experience and fine background are behind me. You might have reached my level too someday, Mrs. Cartman, had you not come from such meager beginnings."

Wendy suppressed a bristle. Sure, she had leapt at her first chance out of South Park, and she and Cartman very, very, very rarely ventured back there. Actually, Wendy hadn't been since she had announced her engagement to her parents. But there was no need to let Lorne know that. It was best to appear continuously proud. "Of course," Wendy said smoothly, fidgeting a little bit with a white out pen. "Having grown up in such a modest town, I could hardly expect to match your loose tongue."

Lorne frowned. "Loose tongue?"

Seamlessly, Wendy lied, "Quite so. I speak, of course, of that special flow you have to your words." Lorne looked confused, not quite able to work out exactly how Wendy was insulting her. "But perhaps if I work hard for many, many long, tiring years, I can come close to your—Oops!" She had squeezed the white out pen very tightly, sending a substantial spurt of white out soaring into the air and landing directly on Lorne's shoes.

But really, they weren't just shoes. They were Christian Louboutin and cost enough to give Cartman a stroke. Lorne shrieked so loudly that Wendy's ears were left ringing, but that was a small price to pay for the deep swell of satisfaction that was building in her chest. "Oh, I'm sorry," Wendy said. "But look on the bright side. At least now you won't be wearing out of season shoes." And with that, she turned on her heel and left the Senate building.

"You look mildly pleased," Cartman said as she walked briskly into the kitchen, kicking off her shoes by the refrigerator. She pulled out the ceviche she had made the previous night, dishing it out into small serving bowls and surrounding it on a plate with homemade tortilla chips. She placed the two plates on the table, and Cartman brought over forks, his beer, and the cocktail he had just concocted for her. "So, whose soul did you crush?"

"I ruined someone's shoes," Wendy said pleasantly.

Cartman rolled his eyes. "The white out trick?" He remembered the bitch-fest Wendy had had with Heidi years ago. Predictably, Wendy had dominated that fight.

Wendy smiled. "Maybe that will begin to teach Lorne that nobody fucks with Wendy Cartman."

And then Cartman smirked widely. "She giving you a hard time again?"

Wendy groaned, "The worst! Today she told me that I would never live up to her because I was a hick." Cartman frowned. "It's just one nightmare after another with that woman. I swear, if she puts another toe out of line with me, I'm going to have to kill her."

"I still have a particularly good recipe for chili if you'd rather just crush her spirit and delight in her sorrow and pain," Cartman offered. "And I'll even train a pony to bite off her balls."

Wendy reached across the table and gave his hand a squeeze. "You're sweet," she said fondly.

Later that night, Cartman and Wendy were lying in bed, Precious curled up at the foot. Cartman was flipping idly through channels on the television, and Wendy was reading a book, a headphone plug in one ear and the other hanging down her side.

The Broncos had lost the game earlier that evening, which had put Cartman in a foul mood. He'd had them marked for winning, and their spectacular fail had lost him money. It wasn't a substantial amount, but Cartman didn't take losing any sum of money very well. Scowling, Cartman switched from ESPN to a local news station.

After a good laugh or two about the plight of the poor, results of a study on marital issues came up. Having already flipped through most of his channels, Cartman watched with disinterest. But then his ears perked up when the study mentioned how the presence of a television in the bedroom decreased copulation by half. Cartman glanced at Wendy from the corner of his eye. Although one of the headphones was out, she wasn't paying attention to the television over the sound of her music. Caught up in her book, she was even oblivious to her husband's stare.

It had been a good four days since they had last had sex. There had been something that either one or both of them had wanted to watch before bed for the past three nights.

Briskly, Cartman slid out of bed. Precious immediately jumped down, her tail wagging as she stared up at him, expecting him to leave the room on some adventure on which she could accompany him. Wendy paid him no mind.

Cartman walked over to the television. He ripped the power plug and the cable from the wall. Wendy glanced at him from over the top of her book. Then, with three long strides, Cartman walked over to the window, pushed it open and heaved the television to the ground two stories below.

"ERIC," Wendy screeched over Precious's wild barking. Cartman snapped the window shut, dusted off his hands with a smug smile, and slipped back into bed.

"Want to have sex," he asked.

"What," Wendy cried. "Sex? You just threw the TV out the window! What is the matter with you?"

"Recent studies show that couples with a TV in their bedroom only have half as much sex," Cartman said evenly. "Half as much. Wendy, my balls are blue."

"We had sex a few days ago. Your balls aren't blue," Wendy said dryly. "I can't believe you threw the TV out the window. That was a good TV. I paid good money for that."

"Correction," Cartman said. "I paid good money for it. I can throw it out any window I want. Now come over here and have sex with me."

Wendy glared. "No, Eric, I'm mad at you. You can't just chuck a TV out a window. We could have just put it in another room."

"Point A: all the other rooms have a TV. Point B: I paid for it, so I can do what I want. Point C: you're mad at least half the time when we fuck. And Point D: I didn't ask."

Wendy's glare then became epic. "I don't know who you think you are, but no one orders me around like that. And I God damn will not have sex with you just because you get all huffy and self-righteous. It doesn't matter how hot that makes you. I am you wife and you will respect that."

Cartman rolled his eyes and even as she continued her bitching rant, leaned over, grabbed her by the front of her shirt and pulled her in for a kiss. She resisted for all of a half second before pushing him onto his back and crawling to straddle him.

"That's a good obedient woman," he said as she began sucking at his neck, only laughing when she pulled roughly at his hair.


	8. Can I Borrow Some Bail Money?

**I'm sorry. I know I promised this in time for Thanksgiving. I'm only about two months late. But here it is, finally. Enjoy. And for further amusement, keep in mind that this is pretty much based on a typical Thanksgiving with my family. Some lines are directly quoted. **

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Chapter 8**

It was that horrible, dreaded, most evil time of year. It was Thanksgiving. Normally, Eric Cartman relished in Thanksgiving. The holiday was centered entirely on food and football. Some people also included family into the mix, but Cartman didn't care about that so much.

No, this year, the joys that the holiday normally brought him—a day home from the office watching football while his goddess of a wife heaped piles of mashed potatoes, dressing, and turkey legs onto his plate—were being completely ruined by the invitation Wendy had extended not only to Kenny and Bebe but Stan and Kyle as well.

Cartman said they should just go back to South Park and make their families deal with them and their gayness, but Wendy countered. Apparently Shelly was going through her third divorce and her parents were taking her on a cruise to console her. They hadn't invited Stan. And Kyle was going to be down in D.C. anyway because of a business trip on Friday. So of course, Wendy _insisted_ that they come spend the holiday with them.

Cartman was no less than seething. Thanksgiving was his time. Stan and Kyle had no right to encroach upon it. The only logical option was to kill them, but Wendy expressly forbid it.

They argued about it enough that Wendy nearly snapped when Cartman flatly refused to go with her to pick them up from the airport. So she left without him, screaming over her shoulder that if the cornbread wasn't crumbled up when she got back there would be hell to pay. Cartman snarled as she shut the door, but he crumbled the slightly stale bread anyway. Fuck if he was going to let Stan and Kyle ruin cornbread dressing.

Task complete, he cracked open a beer and dropped heavily into his armchair, turning on the TV and plotting ways that he could slip Kyle ham tomorrow.

The party entered the house loudly. Michael ran in ahead of his parents, offering Cartman a polite and tentative hello. Cartman was his godfather, but it was obvious that Michael didn't really know how to handle him yet. Kenny assumed that the kid would figure it out in a couple of years and made no efforts to encourage interaction or even explain Cartman's nature to the boy. Michael then scrambled upstairs to the game room that Wendy had set up for him. Cartman didn't budge from his chair. They could just come into the living room if they had something to say to him.

Kenny asked where he was, and Wendy made some snarky reply. A brief moment later, Kenny sauntered into the living room like he owned the place. Cartman frowned at him. Shuffling reluctantly on Kenny's heels were Stan and Kyle. Kyle's shoulders were tense, waiting for the barrage of insults to his religion that Cartman did not fail to deliver.

The initial confrontation then out of the way, Kenny plopped down onto the couch. "So what are you and Wendy fighting about this time," he asked. When Cartman continued to glare heatedly at Stan and—more vehemently—Kyle, Kenny rolled his eyes. "Get over it, man. She's still going to cook lunch and let you watch the game. And she'll be cheerful about it because she's got Bebe around to talk to and plenty of people to use for manual labor."

"Only poor people and Jews are good for labor," Cartman said. "So the emo and bitch are worthless unless they're making cookies."

Kyle snorted loudly, but otherwise said nothing. His restraint came more from Stan's tight grip on his shoulder than from turning the other cheek. "You know," Stan said conversationally, "I only did the emo/goth thing once. And I was, like, eight."

With an almost pitying look, Kenny said, "Dude, any time you and Kyle have a fight, you lock yourself in your room and play bad 80s music with all the lights off."

Kyle patted his hand. "You are pathetic like that."

Cartman huffed, "Fags."

Wednesday night continued on much in this vein, with little in the way of disturbances. When Cartman woke up the next morning, he remained lying in bed for several long minutes, bemoaning his misfortunes of the day ahead.

Most years, Wendy was able to talk her parents out of flying over for the holidays and convince them that she was too busy to come home. Cartman flat out refused to go back and told his mother straight up that she wasn't to come see him. She always accepted his demands cheerfully. Only the first two years they were married did Wendy want their parents to be a part of the day. Wendy was an excellent cook, and she was a perfectionist. If things didn't go according to her exact (over the top) plans and expectations, she lost it. The first year, she kicked him in the balls when he told her to calm her ass down.

At that meal, there had only been five people present. During his childhood, Cartman had always spent the day with his family in Nebraska. The Cartman family was numerous, and they seemed to grow larger—not just in weight—every year. He'd made the mistake of wandering into the kitchen once when he was seven, looking to steal a turkey leg before dinner was ready. After stepping on him and nearly splashing him with boiling water in the process, one of his aunts had screamed at him until his ears were ringing. He'd always hated that bitch. And when she had ordered him to get out of the kitchen, his uncle had nearly opened the oven on his head, and his grandfather tried to rope him into carrying a stack of twenty-five plates along with all the numerous utensils into the dinning room.

Cartman had never made the mistake of walking into a kitchen on Thanksgiving again. That was where the cooks belonged and as a spectator, he preferred to sit on the couch with the television on.

So this year, although they wouldn't be cooking for twenty-five, there would be seven, and Wendy would turn it into a big production because neither Stan nor Kyle had ever been over for such a festive meal before. And because they were her guests, Wendy would refuse to let anyone else help her with the preparation. That meant that she would try to make him do all the bitch work. And he wasn't going to be a part of that, which meant their fight was about to escalade to all new proportions.

Cartman sighed and heaved himself out of bed, preparing for the day and the inevitable. He dressed in a pair of jeans and a Broncos jersey, and after walking out of his bedroom and down the stairs, he walked straight for the bar in the living room to make a strong whiskey drink.

"Bit early for that, isn't it," Kyle asked snidely. Cartman was tempted to throw the drink on Kyle, but that would be a waste of good alcohol. So he settled for flipping him off. He sat down on his chair—throwing Kenny up and over to the couch in the process—and focused his attention on the TV, but he could still hear the sounds of Wendy in the kitchen over the speakers. Things sounded calm enough, but Cartman knew that she would erupt the closer everything got to being done.

It was about when the pregame show started that Wendy yelled, "Eric, can you come in here?"

Cartman didn't budge. He didn't even move his eyes from the screen. "Cartman," Kenny said. "She's calling you."

"I don't care," Cartman said.

"The game's not on for another half-hour at least," Stan said. "You're not missing anything."

"Eric!"

"Dude, just help her out for a few minutes," Kyle said. "She won't let the rest of us in there."

"She's the one that wanted so many people over. Now she has to deal with it," Cartman said.

"ERIC!"

"Dickhole," Bebe scoffed, getting up from her seat and stalking into the kitchen. They could hear the mini fight break out between the two women. Wendy was shouting that Bebe was a guest and that it wouldn't kill Cartman to come help her out for ten God damn minutes. Bebe countered by telling Wendy not to worry about Cartman because men would be men, which meant they needed their precious football, and that she could use some practice in the kitchen anyway.

Cartman returned his full attention to the TV and his drink, ignoring the glares that Kyle and Stan gave him on occasion, and Bebe remained in the kitchen until Wendy declared the food to be ready at the start of the second quarter. Kyle and Kenny immediately got up, Stan following a second later with a little look of longing at the TV. Cartman remained in his seat. "Eric, food's ready," Wendy said.

"So bring me a plate," he said.

Wendy frowned, stepping to block his view of the TV. She planted her hands on her hips, further blocking the screen when he tried to lean over. "We have company this year. We're eating in the dinning room."

"You might be eating in the dinning room," Cartman said, "but I'm eating right here where I can watch the game."

"The game will still be on when we're done eating," she said.

"I'm not going to miss an entire quarter just because you invited the fag and the Jew over," Cartman said.

Wendy's eyes flashed. She ripped the remote from his hand and quickly set it to record the station. "There," she snapped. "It's being TiVo-ed. Now come and eat or so help me, I will jam my gravy ladle up your ass!"

She'd do it.

Cartman sighed heavily, conveying as much suffering and plight into the gesture as he could. When Wendy remained unimpressed, he took to growling obscenities under his breath. Wendy turned on her heel and went back into the kitchen, presumably to grab some more food or another serving dish. Cartman shuffled into the dinning room, taking his place at the head of the table. Wendy walked in with a basket of rolls, took her place next to her husband, and said, "Dig in, everyone."

Stan, Kyle, and Kenny immediately showered Wendy with compliments to the spread, and Wendy humbly brushed them off, as if she didn't know that she had God's hands when in the kitchen. Cartman loaded up his plate with a turkey leg, a few thick slices of ham, mashed potatoes and gravy, rice and cornbread dressing, green beans, three rolls and a chunk of canned cranberry. As he scooped it off the plate, Stan made a face. "Gross, what is that?"

Cartman's eyes narrowed as he lowered the plate back to the table. "Canned cranberry," he said lowly.

"Canned cranberry," Kyle repeated, the look on his face almost as repulsed as the one on Stan's. "Really, Wendy," he asked. "Considering the rest of this?" Everything else on the table had been alive less than forty-eight hours ago. The vegetables had been grown in Wendy's little garden in the back, and she had as good as hunted down and killed the turkey and ham herself.

Wendy smiled sheepishly. "Eric insists on it," she said. Then she giggled, lifting up the plate. "It's not too bad. I mean, look at it. It's got the shape of the can on it." She pointed to the little ridges in the gelatin like substance.

"That's still gross," Stan said.

"I'll eat it," Kenny offered, reaching over Bebe and grabbing the plate from Wendy's hands.

The meal progressed pleasantly enough, if the others ignored the big pile of tension that was Cartman. Finally, after he was finished eating and not waiting for anyone else, Cartman stood, leaving his dirty plate behind for Wendy to take care of and walked into the living room, but not before throwing a slice of ham right into Kyle's face. He snickered at the obscenities Kyle flung after him and ignored Wendy's indignant screeches.

He sat back in his chair, picked up his newly refilled whiskey, and flipped the game back to where he had been forced to get up. Wendy came storming into the living room after him, Kyle on her heels and the others hovering in the doorway to watch the show.

"Eric, what is the matter with you?"

"That's not funny, fatass!"

"I bitch-slapped your Jew-rat face with a ham. You're going to have to explain to me where there is a lack of humor in that," Cartman said.

"Eric, you're thirty-one years old," Wendy lectured. "It's time to grow up. You can't just do that to one of our guests."

"He's your guest," Cartman clarified. "And I hate him."

"Hate him on your own time," Wendy snapped. "No offense, Kyle," she added in a more pleasant tone. Kyle simply shrugged at her. "Eric, come help me with the kitchen. It's the least you could do after that stunt."

"I'm not going in there," he said, laughing at the very idea.

"You didn't even bother to bring your plate to the sink!"

"I never do," Cartman said. "Why would I start now?"

"Just come help me," she demanded.

"No," he said. "It's woman's work, and even if it wasn't, I'm sure it looks like Hiroshima in '45 in there. That's the sort of shit we have a maid for."

"She's not scheduled to come again until Tuesday," Wendy said. "And we aren't leaving the kitchen looking like that for that long."

"You keep saying we like I'm included in all this," he said.

"Eric, God dammit, you get your ass into that kitchen right now and help me straighten up."

"Did I or did I not already clarify that cleaning the kitchen is the work for either women or illegal Mexicans," Cartman asked. "Now get out of the way, bitch. I can't see the TV."

"You can't call me a bitch," Wendy screeched.

"I can if you keep screaming in my ears," he yelled back. Wendy reached out, grabbed the remote from his hand and jammed her thumb violently over the power button. The screen went black, and Cartman snarled, "What the fuck is wrong with you, ho? Put it back on."

"No," she said stubbornly. Glaring, Cartman reached into the depths of the chair, where he had hidden an extra remote for just such occasions as when Wendy was being difficult and hit the power. The TV flared back to life, and Cartman smirked smugly as Wendy's jaw dropped. With a snarl, she stormed over to the TV, reached behind it, and ripped the power cord from the wall.

With a murderous frown, Cartman jumped up from his chair and walked over. He pushed Wendy out of the way and plugged the TV back in. She tried to reach around him to get at the cord, but his much larger bulk effectively blocked her every move. He grinned after her when her cheeks puffed up like a chipmunk and she stormed from the room.

Cartman went back to his chair, pleased with himself. He had won that battle spectacularly. But his victory was short lived. Just as he was getting comfortable, Wendy returned, a pair of large hedge clippers in her hands. Vaguely, Cartman wondered if she was going to threaten his balls with them again, but then his eyes widened in horror when she stuck them behind the TV and snipped. The screen erupted into static.

"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST DO," he thundered. Michael clung to his mother's leg and began to cry. Kenny reached down to appease him with a slice of canned cranberry.

Wendy stood triumphant before the TV, the hedge clippers poised to inflict more damage. "I'll follow you through every room in the house," she warned. And Cartman knew that she would. She'd snip every single cable cord in the house, even the one he'd set up in the slave house.

He stood seething at her for several long minutes, his fists clenching and unclenching and his left eye twitching. His mouth moved in silent rage, his vocal cords completely unable to express the degree of outrage he was feeling towards his wife.

Very suddenly, he yelled, "Kenny, get your poor ass in the car and drive me to a bar!" Cartman's face had turned red with rage. Kenny, knowing that if Cartman threw so much as his whiskey glass at him in that fit of rage then there were no less than five ways he could be killed, scrambled into the kitchen to grab Cartman's keys from by the garage door. Cartman made a very dramatic and violent exit from the house, slamming the door so loudly that they heard glass shatter. Wendy slammed her foot down and let out a scream that sounded not unlike an owl thrown into a blender.

Bebe, who was the only one brave enough to approach Wendy, patted her back sympathetically. She motioned towards the kitchen with her head, and Stan and Kyle scrambled to wash dishes and put leftovers into the refrigerator. Michael even helped by wiping down the counters. He thought for a moment about sweeping up the glass that had shattered around the door, but decided against it. He was half convinced that his father's chronic deaths were an inheritable trait, and he wasn't taking any chances.

They had finished with most of the kitchen—only the heavily dirtied pans left—when Bebe ushered a sobbing Wendy into the kitchen. Kyle quickly rummaged through the liquor cabinet and pulled out some s'more flavored schnapps. He was about to mix it into a drink, but Wendy snatched the entire bottle from him. "Why does he always do this," she wailed. "He ruins everything when we have company over!"

"Honey, he's anti-social," Bebe said, not bothering to touch on the myriad of other mental problems Cartman had. "Of course he's going to ruin things."

"But Thanksgiving is always so nice when it's just us."

"Because you're the only person Cartman likes," Bebe reminded her.

"He still doesn't need to throw ham!"

Stan shrugged and leaned his folded arms on the counter. "At least he didn't slip it in where Kyle accidentally ate it."

"Thanks for your input, Stan," Kyle said dryly. Stan grinned at him.

"Excuse me," Wendy snapped, reaching over to grab several tissues from a nearby box. "We are focused on me right now." Stan and Kyle both turned to her with rapt attention. Wendy brought the tissue up to her nose, irritation fading to be replaced once again by misery. "I just don't know why he can't behave."

"You married a jerk, Wendy," Kyle said. "You knew what you were getting into."

"I know you have a problem with him," Wendy said, "but you don't get to see him like I do. He really can be so great. He gets me. He doesn't back down and just let me walk all over him. He's a challenge, all the time, even now. I mean, he's the best guy I've ever been with. All the other ones were just marginally acceptable."

"Ouch," Stan said a brief moment later. Wendy only shrugged. She continued to wail and bemoan the argument she'd just had with her husband, much to the misery of her guests, especially Kyle and Stan's when she got into their sex lives.

It was nearly two hours later that the phone rang. Bebe glanced over at the caller ID. "It's Cartman," she said.

Wendy snarled. "Don't answer it. I never want to talk to him again." Stan and Kyle exchanged confused glances. Wendy had just spent the past few hours worrying—loudly—that Cartman would never come home because she had done the unthinkable in cutting the cable wire. A moment later, the call went to the answering machine. No message was left, but the phone began to ring loudly again.

"It might be an emergency," Bebe said.

A second later, Kenny's voice came through on the answering machine. _"Hello,"_ he called. _"Hello? I know you're still there. Someone pick up!"_

Bebe reached over and hit the speaker button. "Hi, hun," she said.

"_Bebe, oh thank God,"_ Kenny said relieved. _"Whoever hasn't been drinking too much over there, they need—"_ Here his words jumbled. _"—out of control."_

"Kenny, you have to speak up. It's really loud where you are."

"_I said, Cartman's out of control. Someone needs to come take care of this." _

"Can't you talk him down, dude," Stan asked.

There was a loud shout and the sound of breaking glass. Kenny cursed wildly. "What's going on over there," Kyle asked.

"_Cartman got smashed, and now's he's picking fights with people. The bartender just called the cops." _

Wendy seethed. "He's going to get arrested? Kenny, you poor bastard, did you even try to stop him?"

"_What? Of course I tried! I tried to stop _Eric Cartman_ from getting in a bar fight after having a huge fight with his wife. And I got a God damned deli toothpick stabbed in my eye as a consolation prize. It's taking me longer to die than usual, so this is really painful and bloody. But don't worry about me," _Kenny said meanly. Only Bebe dared to snicker.

Just then, through the phone, they could hear the sound of police sirens. Wendy buried her face in her heads. "Oh dear Lord," she muttered. "Where are you, Kenny?"

"_Wet Whistle or Worse for the Wear or something gay like that," _he said over the sounds of Cartman and a new voice—presumably a police officer—screaming at each other. _"Shit, he's trying to fight him. Cartman, stop it!" _

There were some more scuffle noises, Kenny shouting, and finally, Kenny came back on the line and calmly asked, _"Can someone come down here and take care of him? I'm almost out of blood." _

Almost simultaneously, everyone in the kitchen looked at Kyle. "What, me," he asked.

"Well, I'm not going," Wendy said roughly. "I don't care if I never see him again."

"Think about it, dude," Stan said. "You've been fighting Cartman—like physical fist fights—since we were little kids. And he's never been small."

Bebe nodded. "If he's out of control, who better to send in than the Jew with anger management who wouldn't hold back from smacking him around?"

"Use your Jew Kung Fu," Stan said, expression deadly serious as he mimicked martial arts moves.

Kyle rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said. "But I need directions, and, Stan, stop doing that." Stan dropped his hands and pouted. Wendy made a show of being irritated as she wrote them out directions to the bar—and for good measure, the police station—but then she snapped at them to hurry back with her husband.

They had almost forgotten that the phone was still on. It was just as Kyle and Stan shrugged on their coats and walked toward the door that Cartman's voice thundered, _"Bitch, I took business law! I know my rights!" _

Stan couldn't stop the snort of laughter in time. Wendy, mortified, slapped one hand to her face, the other motioning for Stan and Kyle to leave.

The misadventure of collecting Cartman from the police station was nothing short of hell. In the mere half hour that he was there, Cartman had managed to rally all of the inmates into a rebellion. They burned down the station and escaped out into the city. Stan and Kyle managed to find him a couple of hours later chunking a Subway sandwich at the statue of Abraham Lincoln and slurring some rant about George Washington Carver and his peanuts.

Kyle wrestled Cartman into the back of the car, and then talked his ear off about how he needed to apologize to Wendy because the rest of them were ill-equipped to deal with her raging emotions. Cartman's response was simple. "If I—if I died in a car crash, I only hope that bitch is in the seat next to me."

The car fell into silence for several moments. Finally, Stan, turning to glance at Kyle, said, "Now, see, I choose to interpret that as he can't live without her and she can't live without him." Kyle just buried his face in his hands and bemoaned his life.


End file.
